


Mercy

by Go0se



Category: Umbrella Academy
Genre: (Of a sort anyway), Allison is a good wife who happens to also occasionally kill people who try and fuck with her, Childhood Trauma, Death, Gen, Kidnapping, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go0se/pseuds/Go0se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being kidnapped had made her late for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

\----  
  
  
He dies screaming.  
  
She exhales after it's done. Her hands are steady. The twine ropes had chafed her shins and wrists, but they'll heal, and she can get a new covering for her prosthetic if need be. Residue from the underside of the duct tape the man had slapped onto her mouth before she was conscious again sticks to her lips; even in hindsight, she isn't sure why he thought she wouldn't be able to form words underneath the tape. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and stands.  
The man who ran her car off the road and then hit her with knock-out gas died screaming, and Allison picks up his keys from where they had fallen while he'd thrashed in pain. She's careful not to get too close to the cooling corpse. He had been a egoistic nothing; small-time crook with delusions, at the very best, certainly not gifted or even mob-related. She had killed men more powerful than him before she was ten years old. He had talked a lot before she'd killed him, about how unprecedented and unexpected and innovative him and his machines were; he may have actually been from another planet. Still, she isn't surprised to learn that he actually kept something as mundane as car keys on him. Allison had learned a long time ago that image is separate from substance, almost always.

She takes the narrow stairs up out of the basement of the run-down house that he'd brought her to with whatever villainous intent it was he'd been boasting about before she'd killed him. Her new sundress pulls at her thighs as she climbs, making its pockets gape open. She realizes, somewhat disappointedly, that she should have bought the next size up after all. But that doesn't matter now. When she reaches the door at the top of the basement stairs it opens creakily at her push. She moves from the upstairs landing through the house's abandoned kitchen, breathing in the wood rot and dust.  
It makes her think of her own airy, light-filled kitchen. Patrick would want supper when he gets home. He's likely to be home already, hungry and wondering where Allison went off to. She should have put something in the oven before she'd went clothes shopping, maybe a roast or a bird or at least some pizza. It's what a normal wife would do.  
In the front room of the house Allison finds a cobwebby, smoke-stained window that she can see a car through, and beside the window a pile of trash five feet high that's hiding a door. She hip-checks the trash a couple of times before it collapses. It spills dust and vile smells as it hits the floor like a body hitting cement. She holds her hand over her mouth to stop herself from breathing it in, and takes hold of the door's handle. Its frame bends easily enough under her pointed kicks. Allison was thankful for the thick-soled ankle-length boots she had decided to wear that day.

The car who's trunk she had been thrown in before she'd been brought to the house was in the gravel driveway still. It's flashy-looking and new, which again doesn't surprise her. She uses his key to open the diver's side door without incident. Her movements are smooth but her hands are almost numb as she starts the car.

Fifteen minutes of driving on the highway later she can see her own car again, sitting halfway into a ditch like a forgotten toy. Allison parks the other vehicle behind some trees a while away and then walks, just in the off chance there's someone looking for the car she found at the house.

It's a breezy day. Her hair drifts past her field of vision like purple smoke, and she doesn't brush it away. There's a stain on the left side of her skirt that she can pass off as motor oil. Patrick won't ask many questions.

Her own sensible four-door hatchback is still open, the 'door ajar' alarm still chiming gently. She climbs in, letting her back ease into the sun-warmed drivers' seat, and picks her keys up from where they dropped when she'd veered into the ditch. As she turns the car on she tells herself that the loud rumble-hum is just the engine turning over; there is no threat in it. Her shoulders tense anyway. Then she starts shaking and, as calmly as she can, she sets down her keys on the dashboard and presses her forehead against the warmth of the steering wheel before letting all of the tenseness in her shoulders and her brain flood out.  
A couple minutes of crying later she sits up again and wipes her face. She gets back onto the road.

The man who had tied her up in a place stinking of rot and who had ranted about her adopted family and powers and revenge had screamed for a long time, and then he'd died. Allison had heard a rumour that he –she hadn't paid attention to his name--- had broken his leg quite badly the day before, and had he ever heard about how weak twine rope got in this kind of heat?

It had been terrifying. It had been easy. Now it was over.  
  
Growing up in the mansion all the kids in her family (other than Vanya) had learned that they were valuable. Not _valued,_ but of use. At the same time, Allison had learned that because she was the only girl she'd be the obvious target. She'd be the weakest link, in need of rescue.

Now Allison flips her turning signal on, breathing slowly and evenly. The man's dying screams echo in the back of her head. She will always be a target. But she was never weak. And she doesn't need rescuing anymore.

 

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Things I learned about myself while writing this fic.  
> -I use repetition a lot! I am okay with this. Hopefully I used it well.  
> -Still in fact annoyed with how the ladies (barely qualified plural is barely qualified) of Umbrella Academy were treated and characterized. Ah well.  
> -I feel like Allison would have a *lot* of pent up anger and rage inside her head, and really there's only so much a lady can take before she has to put her foot down. Violently. This isn't so much a character study as a rambly character headcanon. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


End file.
